


Until the Next Time

by bayoublackjack



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Mr. Holmes (2015), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Male-Female Friendship, Mycroft's Umbrella, POV River Song, POV Sherlock Holmes, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's Violin, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayoublackjack/pseuds/bayoublackjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every story has a beginning, middle and an ending but not necessarily in that order.  So when the time comes to grant the dying wish of her old friend Sherlock Holmes, River Song is reminded of the beauty of life as a time traveller.  Rather than worrying about the last time, instead, one could just look forward to the next time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beekeeper in the Cottage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GraceHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceHolmes/gifts).



Every story has a beginning, middle and an ending but not necessarily in that order.  That was certainly the case for River Song.  It was an accepted reality in the life of a time traveller that one should always be careful when meeting new people because one could never be sure of what significance they may hold in the future.  Or the past for that matter.

That was why River kept a diary of her time with the Doctor, so as to never corrupt their timelines.  The same could be said of Amy and Rory, though she had broken a few rules where they were concerned.  Amy lamented over the fact that she had never gotten to raise her daughter, but in a way she had.  Only it wasn’t as a loving mother to Melody, but as a devoted friend to Mels.  So for River, the beginning of that story came a lot sooner than it had for Amy and Rory and the “ending” came early as well.

The Doctor never liked endings, and if she was honest, neither did River.  The beauty of life as a time traveller was that River never had to worry about the last time.  Instead, she could just look forward to the next time.  That was the case for the Doctor and for her parents.  But there was another with whom River shared such a connection.

Sherlock Holmes was a dead man when River first met him.  Or at least that was what the world was led to believe.  She, of course, knew better.  A man like Sherlock was destined to leave an impression on the world and his was legendary.

By the 52nd Century, Sherlock Holmes' legacy had reached mythical proportions.  So great was the reputation of the detective and his skills that some people simply refused to believe that he actually ever existed.  The conflicting accounts of his life had made it difficult to determine just what was fact and what was fiction.

Had he lived during the Victorian Age or was it the early 21st Century?  Did he live out his entire life in England or did he, as rumoured, temporarily relocate to New York City?  Was the elder Mycroft Holmes his only sibling or was there indeed a third Holmes brother after all?  And what was the deal with Mr. Holmes and his constant companion Dr Watson?  Was their relationship strictly platonic in nature or was there something else at play?  Furthermore, was Dr Watson's name really John or was it in fact Joan Watson as believed in some smaller circles to great scandal.

For all the questions that Sherlock inspired, the biggest area of contention in the Holmesian mythos was the subject of his demise.  Had he really tumbled over the edge of Reichenbach Falls locked in combat with his greatest adversary, Professor James Moriarty?  Or perhaps it was something far more insidious like a drug overdose.  When River first encountered Sherlock, the prevailing theory was that the disgraced detective had taken his own life by jumping from the roof of St. Barts Hospital after being labelled a fraud.

River, of course, knew all of these rumours to be false.

In truth, the great Sherlock Holmes did not go out in a blaze of glory at the prime of his life but rather he met his end quietly in a cottage in the Sussex Downs.  At the time of his death, he was elderly and retired, having long since traded the life of a detective for one of an apiarist.  It was quite the understated denouement to such a legendary story and an ending that River actively avoided for quite some time.

Alas, ever the clever man that she knew him to be, Sherlock had deduced his impending death and sought to spend his final moments contemplating the greatest mystery he had ever encountered, the infamous River Song.

Not one to deny a dying man his final wish, River dressed for the occasion.  She wore a simple black dress paired with multiple strands of pearls and her best black heels.  To complete the look, she donned the long coat she had liberated from its previous owner once upon a time and strapped her vortex manipulator to her wrist.  With one last look at her reflection, she set off for her destination.

River arrived at a small cottage a few miles off Beachy Head in the sleepy village of East Dean.  She was a frequent visitor to the household and, as such, let herself inside without invitation.  The cottage itself was large enough to house the beekeeper in residence along with his many diversions and yet small enough as to remain manageable as time took its toll on him.

Sherlock sat amongst a stack of books and assorted charts.  He was much older than the dashing young detective she had met so long ago.  He was greyer and he appeared frailer.  More tired than she’d ever seen him before.

His eyes were closed and his long, wrinkled fingers were steepled together in front of his face as he retreated inside himself.  On the table next to him, there sat a teapot with two cups.  River filled both teacups and then carried one over to the chair facing his.  She nursed her tea while she awaited Sherlock’s return from his latest sojourn into his mind palace.

The tea had long gone cold when Sherlock opened his eyes.  River had finished her cup and abandoned her coat on her chair while she puttered around the cottage.  “Come to return my coat at long last, have you?” he asked in a wheeze as his gaze landed on the woollen heap.  “After all these years?”

“If I wanted you to have it, I never would have stolen it in the first place,” River insisted.  “Do you have any idea what a Milford coat from Belstaff in good condition would go for in the 52nd Century?  Especially one worn by you.”

“Stole?  I _let_ you have it.”

River scoffed as she ran her hand along one of the bookshelves.  “I do believe, Sherlock my dear, that you’re remembering things quite different than they actually occurred.”

“I assure you that my memory is perfectly adequate, River,” he retorted.  “It was after our trip to Victorian London.”

“As I recall, Doyle was quite taken with you,” she teased.  “He only cared about his historical stories before then.”

Sherlock took a sip of his cold tea and grimaced.  “At least they were of good use.  Who would want to read about a detective?”

“You tell me,” River retorted, returning to his side with a copy of _The Angel's Kiss: A Melody Malone Mystery_.

“Is that a detective story?”  Sherlock questioned.  “I thought it was an account of your flirting.”

“Is there a difference?” River countered with a wide grin while setting the book aside.  “A good detective always flirts with their clients.  I learned _that_ from the best,” she added as she relieved him of his tea.

“Is that what you thought I was doing?”

“Of course!”  She disappeared into his kitchen long enough to reappear with an empty cup and a fresh pot of tea.  “Showing off is the sincerest form of flirtation,” she informed him as she poured.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.  “Only _you_ would think that.”

River smiled brightly as she offered him the tea.  “Well I _am_ one of a kind.”

“Thankfully,” he said, taking his tea with a severely put upon expression.

“Don’t be cross, dear.  You may say something you won’t have a chance to take back.”

“Then I suppose we should do away with the pleasantries and get to the matter at hand,” he announced.

“Leave it to you to be abrupt even in death.”  River huffed softly and picked up the Belstaff so she could sit.  “Go on then.”  She crossed her legs at the knee and draped the coat over her lap.  “Say what you need to say.”

Sherlock took a small sip of his tea then set it aside.  His long fingers curled around the arms of his chair and he hoisted himself up gingerly.  As he stood up straight, he launched into a fit of coughs.  He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed away the sputum.  He had gotten weaker since the last time she’d seen him.  It was as she feared.  The end really was near.

While River contemplated her old friend’s mortality, Sherlock slowly made his way over to the fireplace.  He leaned against the lintel and reached for a nearby umbrella.  From the handle, River immediately recognised it as belonging to Mycroft.

Even now he’d never admit to being the sentimental sort, but River knew that Sherlock had collected many other tokens over the years.  The jumper he wore was a frumpy old thing that only John Watson, or one of the Doctor’s younger selves, could have ever loved.  And River knew first-hand that the tea set they were using had been Ms. Hudson’s once upon a time.  Scattered about the cottage were mementos of those who had come and gone from his life.  For the sake of his ego, River pretended not to notice.

Sherlock used the umbrella to dislodge something from inside the chimney.  River couldn’t help imagining Mycroft’s reaction to such misuse and the thought brought a tiny smile to her face.  Sherlock employed the umbrella’s handle to pick up the sooty wad of cloth.  Once his prize was safely in hand, he abandoned the umbrella by the fireplace and returned to his chair.

The combination of exertion and ash sent him into another bout of coughing so he took a moment to collect himself before undoing the wrappings.  As he began to unfurl the dusty fabric, small patches of blue became apparent and River recognised it as his favourite scarf.  At the centre of the mysterious bundle was a carved wooden box.  “I need you to deliver this to someone for me,” he informed River, sounding more strained than he had before.

“To whom?”

“Me,” Sherlock answered simply.

River frowned.  “Foreknowledge,” she began only to be dismissed by a wave of his hand.

“I’m not corrupting my timeline,” he assured her.  “If anything, I’m guaranteeing things play out as they should.”  He tapped the box impatiently.  “The only reason I’m in possession of this now is because I returned to myself in the past.”

“What is it?” River questioned, leaning forward in her seat and eying the box keenly.

“Spoilers,” he replied triumphantly.  Clearly, he had been sitting on that one for quite a while.

“Okay then…where did you get it?”

“Spoilers.”

“ _When_ did you get it?”

“Spoilers,” he practically sang.

River smiled ruefully.  “And how, William my love, do you propose that I deliver this box to you if I don’t know what it is, when it’s from or to where I’m expected to return it?”

“Indirectly, of course.”

“Meaning?” she snapped.

“By way of a middleman…naturally.”

“Naturally,” River repeated sarcastically.  “And _who_ might that middleman be?”

Sherlock continued to drum his fingertips idly against the box.  “I need you to give this to the Doctor.”

It didn’t happen often, but River was rendered speechless.  Of all the answers he might have given, that one was the only one for which she hadn’t been prepared.  River tore her gaze away from the box and stared at Sherlock in shock.  “The Doctor?”  She managed as last.  “ _My_ Doctor?”

“One of them at least,” he said casually.  “He does have so many faces.”

She locked onto Sherlock’s eyes.  They seemed bluer than they had in quite some time.  More animated.  Mischievous even.  “Have you met the Doctor before?”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.  “Spoilers.”

River wasn’t sure who she felt betrayed by more…the Doctor or the detective.  Or well, the apiarist, as it were.  Either way, they were both begging to be stung.  The idea of her sweetie having companions wasn’t anything new, but that didn’t give him the right to try and pinch hers.

In spite of her discontent, River straightened her spine and flashed her signature smile in his direction.  “Very well, but at the very least, can you tell me how I’m meant to give it to him?”

“You’re nothing, if not resourceful,” he replied, lifting the box for her to take with shaky hands.

River rose from her seat and covered his hands with her own.  His skin was cold to the touch.  She crouched down in front of him with their hands still jointed around the box.  “Sherlock,” she began in a tender voice.

“I’m tired,” he announced suddenly with laboured breath.

Lestrade was right about the cigarettes being a killer.  The inspector had fallen victim to their shared vice some twenty years prior and Sherlock was destined to follow any day now.  The irony of his death being a result of his smoking habit as opposed to years of hard drug use wasn’t lost on him.

“Then you should rest for a bit,” River suggested.  “I can take the box to the Doctor and be back before you wake.”

“No…this time...”  He closed his eyes.  “I don’t believe you will.”

River took the box from him and set it on the ground.  Then, she took both of Sherlock’s hands into hers and brought them to her lips.  “There’s always time, my love,” she told him in a whisper.  “This isn’t the end of you and me.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly and with great effort.  “You will see me again,” he agreed.  “Soon.  I remember it well.  It took a moment to find.”  He opened his eyes again.  “It’s so full now.  My mind.  So much…so many things.  I really should have deleted more of it.  John’s moustache would have made for a brilliant start.”

River let out a breathy chuckle.  “You really have gotten sentimental in your old age,” she teased sadly.

Sherlock huffed weakly.  “Human error.”  He began coughing again and River reached for his handkerchief.  She held it up to his mouth and cleaned his face once he settled down.  He closed his eyes once more and leaned back into his chair.  “I think it’s time I sleep.”

River nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see it.  “Rest,” she reiterated.  “I’ll just…”

“Stay,” Sherlock requested quietly.  “Just a while longer.”

River fought the urge to cry.  “Anything you want, my love.”

Sherlock hummed his appreciation.  “A song.”  He aimed a limp finger at the long outdated docking station and media player on his desk.  Vinyl had seen yet another resurgence in popularity in those days, but Sherlock never was a trend chaser.

River gave his hand a quick and gentle squeeze before moving over to the desk and pressing play.  The sound of violin music filled the room as she returned to his side.  “ _As Time Goes By_?”

“You asked me to play it for you,” Sherlock informed her with a hint of a smile.  “You wore black with pearls and ridiculous heels.  You wept.  And I…I was…”  He exhaled slowly.  “When you left, I wasn’t sure that you’d return.  But you did.  You always came back to me.  My Melody.”

River inhaled quietly and bit her trembling bottom lip into submission.  She closed her eyes tightly in defiance of the tears that tried to escape.  “And I always will,” she promised as she sank to the ground completely, leaning against his leg while they listened to the music.

Once the song was over, River opened her eyes and looked up at Sherlock.  He looked so peaceful.  If she hadn’t known any better, she may have been able to convince herself that he really was just sleeping.

River inhaled a cleansing breath and pushed herself up from the ground.  She took a moment to smooth the wrinkles out of her dress.  Picking up the coat from the other chair, she draped it over its rightful owner.  After one final parting glance, she leaned forth and pressed a kiss to his temple.  “Until the next time, William.”

Taking a step back, she picked up the carved box and reached for her vortex manipulator.  And in a bright flash of light, she was gone.


	2. The Professor in the Library

There were few things in the life of Sherlock Holmes that were more vexing than his association with River Song.  From day one, she had been a mystery to him and her visits usually left him with more questions than answers.  So when she arrived at his flat unannounced and requested that he play her a song, he begrudgingly agreed because the ends justified the means.  And he was determined to solve her by any means necessary.

Sherlock lifted his violin, allowing his fingers and bow to dance across the strings in perfect synchronicity.  _As Time Goes By_ wasn't one of his favourites but he knew it well enough to play the song without any sheet music.

Once the song had ended, Sherlock opened his eyes and lowered his violin.  When he looked towards River for a reaction, she was staring back at him with a forlorn expression and tears in her eyes.  Feeling unnerved by her maudlin display, Sherlock set his violin to the side and his sights on his clue wall.  River, perhaps feeling slighted by his sudden disinterest, unceremoniously departed shortly thereafter as quickly as she had appeared.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock wasn't completely apathetic.  While it was true that he had mastered the art of indifference, he was more than capable of feeling things quite deeply.  He simply preferred not to and therein laid the problem.

To borrow from the robot analogy so often and erroneously applied to him, Sherlock's brain was like a computer.  It was organized, it was precise, and it operated in accordance with a stringent set of rules and standards.  Emotions were like a virus.  They infected and distorted the system.  They corrupted, if not outright hindered, his ability to function.  And that, of course, was where the drugs came into play.

He never used drugs for any pedestrian reasons such as chasing the euphoria associated with achieving a high.  It was the numbness that Sherlock craved.  The morphine and heroin granted him freedom from his emotions.  And although he often felt the pull, he refused to indulge the whim at present.  His drug use tended to only exacerbate the mawkish tendencies of the few he chose to hold close.  Furthermore, he suddenly found himself gifted with a greatly welcomed distraction that arrived to the unwelcomed sound of unearthly wheezing.

Sherlock suspected that he would have recognised the TARDIS even if he had not heard about it from River.  Granted, he may not have known exactly what the poorly disguised time machine was initially.  He would have, however, been able to deduce that the telephone box that suddenly took up residence in his flat was not of ordinary origin nor had it arrived via ordinary means.

Sherlock walked a slow circle around the blue box.  Its exterior, while seemingly unremarkable, stood as a monument to its history.  The chips and nocks in the wood suggested untold tales of recklessness. River and her husband were obviously two of a kind.

Coming to a stop in front of the police box, Sherlock placed a flat palm against its wooden door.  River had mentioned the Doctor’s many faces.  He wondered which one it would be today.

Not waiting for a formal invitation, Sherlock grasped the handle and pushed the door open.  As promised, the TARDIS really was bigger on the inside.  Impossibly so.  The very idea of travelling through time was at odds with most of the logic that Sherlock held so dearly and the interior of the box was affront to the laws of physics.

In the middle of the visual chaos, there stood a man.  He was tall with curly grey hair and brushy eyebrows, but he didn't resemble anyone River had ever described.  "Which one are you?" Sherlock asked straight off, forgoing any pleasantries.  "The oldest or the newest?"

"Well..."  The Doctor began in an unexpectedly Scottish brogue.  "Both, if we're being completely technical about it.  I'm the most recent incarnation of myself and therefore the oldest."

"Semantics."

"The devil is in the details, they say," The Doctor told him with a smile.  "But I suppose you would know that better than most."

"It's come up once or twice," Sherlock retorted as he scanned his surroundings.  "If it's River you're after, you just missed her."

"Actually, Mr. Holmes, it's you that I've come to see."  His voice was suddenly more serious.  "It's about River..."

Sherlock lifted a brow, turning his attention back to the other man.  His expression was not unlike the one River had worn before.  The only difference was that his was more resolved than hers.  Whatever had transpired wasn't as raw for the Doctor as it had been for River.  They both were time travellers moving in opposite directions from one another.  He must have come from a later point in time than she had.  “She sent you?”

“No.  Not River,” the Doctor answered.  He tapped a carved block of wood no bigger than a shoebox.

Sherlock strode forward out of curiosity.  Upon closer inspection, he discovered that the wooden block was actually a box.  “May I?”  The Doctor gestured with an open palm.  Sherlock lifted the box to his eye level in order to examine it further.  There wasn’t anything especially significant about it.  He lowered the box enough to look the Doctor in the eyes.  “Where did you get this?”

“River delivered it to my former self with instructions to bring it to you,” he explained to Sherlock.  “I would have come sooner but…situations quite frequently arise and alter my plans.”

“I just saw River.  Why didn’t _she_ give it to me?”

“I got the impression that she wasn’t sure of that herself,” the Doctor confessed.

Sherlock set the box back down on the console and slowly opened the lid.  Inside, he found a blue diary like the one River always carried only this one was older and more tattered than he’d ever seen hers.  Along with the diary there was also another object.  It was small and long and the likes of which Sherlock had never seen before.

“Oh, River…”  The Doctor exhaled in a breathy laugh to his side.  “You clever girl!”  He began moving frantically around the console pressing buttons and flipping switches.  The ground beneath them shifted and the TARDIS began to make the same irritating noise as it had done when it first arrived.

“Where are we going?”

“I’d have thought you would have sorted that out by now,” the Doctor said.  “We’re going to see River.”  He picked up the unnamed object.  “And here’s our invitation.”

Once again, Sherlock found himself wondering what the urgency was behind him seeking out River when they had only just parted ways, but he resisted questioning the Doctor.  Talking to him was a bigger headache than chatting with River.  At least she wore her ambiguity better.

When the TARDIS began groaning again, Sherlock deduced that they had arrived at their destination.  Deciding not to wait for the Doctor, Sherlock grabbed the box and diary and strode outside.  He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find but endless bookshelves was low on the list.  “You’ve brought us to a library?”

“Technically…you’ve brought us here,” the Doctor countered.  “And it isn’t just any library.  It’s _the_ Library.”

“Explain.”

The Doctor gestured to their surroundings.  “Welcome to the Library, a planet-sized library built during the 50th century.  Here you’ll find a copy of every book ever written.  Several of which are written about you,” he added.  “It’s also the final resting place of Professor River Song.”

The Doctor’s words drew Sherlock up short.  “Come again?”

The Doctor sighed softly.  “You wanted to know why she couldn’t deliver the message herself?  There’s your answer.”  He paused and gave Sherlock a look of condolence.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock waved off his words as nonsense.  “River can’t be dead.  I saw her.  I _just_ saw her.”

“Who you saw was a _version_ of her,” the Doctor explained.  “People think of time as something that happens linearly and for the most part it does.  But for people like River and myself, the progression is a bit more…complicated.”

Sherlock allowed the Doctor’s words to sink in.  He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace to sort through the information he gleaned.

River, or a version of her, had sent Sherlock a message.  One clearly from a point in time occurring further in the future than the River he had just seen existed in.  A message River couldn’t deliver herself and instead she trusted it to the Doctor.  He opened his eyes and turned towards the Doctor.  “You called that thing an invitation,” he said pointing to the object still in the other man’s possession.  “Why?  What is it?”

“This?”  He held it up.  “It’s a sonic screwdriver.  _My_ sonic screwdriver.  I gave it to River right before she came here to the Library.”  He glanced down at the screwdriver.  “When I first met River…from my perspective…it was here.  The day she died.  She told me something only I could have told her and she had this.”  He held it up.  “I knew I had to give it to her in the future because my past self already had seen it.”

The look on his face told Sherlock that the Doctor had known he was sending River off to her death when they parted ways.  More importantly, it was a look that Sherlock recognised.  It was a look that mirrored the expression that River wore when she requested that Sherlock play a song for her only moments ago.  It was a look of grief and longing and sadness.  In short…it was a look of mourning.  The Doctor was in mourning for River.  And River…

“Where did she get the box?” Sherlock demanded.

“Perhaps that’s a question best answered by River herself,” the Doctor suggested.  He led the way back inside the TARDIS.  “River may be dead, but she’ll never be gone.  Not truly.”

Sherlock exhaled sharply.  “Is this really the time for sentimental drivel?”  His own emotions were proving to be rather burdensome at the moment.  He didn’t have the patience to deal with those of River’s widow as well.

“I was speaking literally,” the Doctor informed him.  “When she died, River was saved as a data ghost and uploaded to the Library’s data core.  Data that can be accessed at will!”  He began fiddling with the console again aiming the sonic screwdriver at different odds and ends.  “Put your hands right here,” he instructed.  Sherlock looked at the Doctor dubiously but complied.  He set the box aside and placed his hands on a portion of the console that seemed to suck him in on contact.  “You’ve just initiated a psychic link with the TARDIS.  Through her, you’ll be able to access the Library’s data core.  Just say…‘access River Song.’”

Sherlock hesitated for a brief moment before repeating the words.  “Access River Song.”  There was a sudden surge in synaptic activity and Sherlock was seemingly transported to a park.  For a brief moment, he was confused as to why he had been brought there, but then he heard it.  The dulcet tones of his favourite melody.

“‘It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Sherlock Holmes was distinguished,’” River read aloud to a group of children.  “‘In an incoherent and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have endeavoured to give some account of my strange experience in his company from the chance which first brought us together at the period of the “Study in Scarlet”…’”

“Pink,” Sherlock chimed in automatically.  “A Study in Pink.”

River gasped and froze momentarily before slowly lowering her book to her lap.  “Every good writer knows they have to alter the details a bit when writing about real people, my dear,” she said breezily as she turned to face Sherlock with a smile.

“Authors, journalists, bloggers,” Sherlock replied with a sharp exhale of air.  “All they care about is painting a pretty picture.”

“People do love imagery,” River shot back.  “It sells the story.”

Sherlock stared at her for a moment.  He was feeling…wistful.  It was strange and inconvenient, but was there any other way to be where River was concerned?  “Tell me a story, River.”

River closed her book and sent the children off so that she and Sherlock could have a moment alone.  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she confessed.

“You only just left me,” Sherlock told her as he took a seat next to her on the park bench.  “You asked me to play you a song, _As Time Goes By_.”

“Oh…I remember that day well.”  The look of mourning returned.

“Because it was the day that I died,” he deduced.

“Spoilers,” she sang back.

Sherlock huffed.  “I hate it when you do that.”

River chuckled.  “Believe me.  It’s much better to be on the giving end rather than the receiving.  You’ll learn that one day.”

Sherlock fell silent for a short time and then he spoke again.  “Why did you bring me here?”

“You think _I_ brought you here?” she questioned in surprise.

“The box,” Sherlock responded impatiently.  “A carved wooden box that to you gave to the Doctor to give to me,” he reminded her.  “One that contained your diary and the sonic screwdriver the Doctor gave you.”

“Oh…”  She gasped again.  “Oh, you sentimental old fool,” she marvelled.  “That was it all along it, wasn’t it?”

“Please do try to be more transparent for once,” Sherlock begged in exasperation.

River smiled sadly.  “On the day you died, you gave me the box and told me to return it to you….to your younger self.”

Sherlock shook his head again.  “How?  Where did the box even come from?  And where did I get your diary and the sonic screwdriver?”

“Here at the Library,” she explained.  “Don’t you see?  You summoned me to grant your dying wish, which was to return the box to yourself so you could find my diary here in the Library.  So you could find me.”

Sherlock frowned.  “Why would I do that?”

“To say goodbye.  Properly.”

Sherlock’s jaw clinched and he forced his facial muscles to relax.  Sentimental old fool indeed.  His future self seemed unrecognisable in comparison to the man that he was now.  Would something transpire in the years to come that caused such a drastic change in demeanour?  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

"What’s a proper goodbye?" he questioned sincerely.  "The last time I attempted to say goodbye, I rang John for a chat and faked my death.  Needless to say, I'm not very good at them."

“We say it like we believe we’ll see each other again,” River told him.  “One way or another…”  Her voice wavered.  “I will see you again because no matter what…I’ll always come back to you, my dearest William.  This isn’t goodbye.  It’s so long until the next time.”

Sherlock felt that unnervingly wistful feeling once more.  Only now it coloured by mourning as well.  He refused to let it take hold of him though.  So he forced the feelings down deep, stood up with a flourish and inclined his head in River’s direction.   “Until the next time, Melody.”

“Until the next time,” she echoed back.

Sherlock’s consciousness re-joined his body inside the TARDIS and he disengaged himself from the console.

“One last stop before we go,” the Doctor announced, already halfway out the door with the wooden box in hand.  He led Sherlock to a balcony deep within the Library where River’s diary and sonic screwdriver sat undisturbed.  He swapped them for the ones in the box.  “I trust you know what to do with these,” he said, passing the objects to Sherlock but leaving the box behind.  Sherlock reckoned he had to procure one of his own eventually.

Sherlock looked down at the diary.  “I always wanted to solve her and now I have all the answers at my fingertips.”

“Half the fun of knowing River is the parts that are left unknown,” the Doctor quipped while walking back towards the TARDIS.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” asked Sherlock.

“Always,” he confessed.  “Which is why I avoid the temptation.”

“I’ve never been known for my impulse control.”

“I’m sure you’ll sort it out.  You’re Sherlock Holmes, the great detective.”  The Doctor returned Sherlock to 221B only a minute after they had originally departed.  Then, he made a hasty exit leaving Sherlock alone to contemplate all the events of the last few hours.

Sherlock retreated into his mind palace for an unknown of time before being pulled out by the sound of another unannounced guest.  “Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson’s voice called out to him.  “Be a dear and have a look at this for me.”  She shoved a carved wooden box at him.  “It’s a jewellery box.  Or at least it was.  I got it off a friend of mine.  I don’t really need it, but I thought to myself, ‘maybe Sherlock could use it to store some of the things he uses for his experiments,’” she reasoned.  “It’d definitely be better than just leaving them lying about like you usually do.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Sherlock agreed, all but snatching the box away from her.

Ms. Hudson looked stunned.  “I am?”

“Yes,” Sherlock assured her while directing her towards the door.  “You should treat yourself to a nice cuppa for your brilliant intuition.  And make one for me while you’re at it.”

“Not your maid, love,” she retorted as she started down the stairs.

“I’ll have biscuits with mine, if you would be so kind,” he shouted after her.  Once she was out of sight, Sherlock placed River’s diary and the sonic screwdriver inside the box.  No sooner than he had tucked it away was he interrupted once more.  “River, back so soon?”

“Counting the days, are you?” she teased.

Just by looking at her, Sherlock could tell that this River was younger than the previous two he’d seen that day.  She was more carefree than the others.  Clearly she had yet to live through the tragedies of her predecessors.  “Days?  It barely felt like minutes.”

River beamed from ear to ear.  “Fancy an adventure?”

Sherlock offered her his arm.  “Where to this time?”

“I’m thinking Victorian London,” River thought out loud as she slipped an arm around his.  “I’m in the mood for a story and I hear Doyle has a real way with words.”

“Are we dressed for that?”

“Good point,” River retorted.  “Grab your coat.  I suspect that it may very well come in handy.”  Sherlock reached for his Belstaff with his free hand.  “Ready?” she asked with fingers poised above her vortex manipulator.

“Always.” 


End file.
